


Lessons I Learned

by Melbell-lings (Melee)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ballet, Crossdressing Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 13:18:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melee/pseuds/Melbell-lings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quick one-shot about a prima ballerina who wants to please his patron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons I Learned

His cellist had stopped playing, paused in the middle of an aria so that it snaps Ivan out of his revere. His right foot is not quite on par with his ear, but the landing is perfect, accompanied by a soft turn into the next movement as though the music is still playing.

Three steady pirouettes, all in a row, and Ivan sneaks his eyes open to see where his patron Monsieur Bonnefoy’s son sits on the bench with his cello abandoned next to him. He is stooped over, chin balanced on templed fingers. He doesn’t watch the dance so much as observes Ivan, gaze flickering over every gentle movement of his hand, the stress of his muscles as he leaps. A curved foot. Straight arms and pointed toes. And Ivan hears a low sigh.

He ignores it. Focuses on the rest of his routine, pouring concentration into every delicate movement, distracting himself from the strange flounce of his skirt. The bodice makes it hard to breathe and Ivan has a new appreciation for the girls his sister teaches, the difficulty they must have performing and adjusting to such frivolous clothing.

But when privately touring Kirov theatre, when they were backstage and when Mathieu fingered some frills and made a wager, the corners of his mouth lifting in a way Ivan liked; that idea of becoming an étoile, the true attraction on stage, was hard to resist. He kept his tights and slippers, slipping on a large tarlatan skirt and having difficulty with the bodice until Mathieu came by, warming his nape with hot breathes.

And surely, Ivan could not refuse a private session, not to the son of the man who provided him with board and three good meals a day and only bothered to show Ivan off those rare times he left France for Russia. This time though, this time his oldest was sent to deal with his affairs, business which he decided included Ivan. It had his skin prickling on their first dinner, the first time Mathieu kissed his ear and called him a whore and slipped in beautifully with an ease Ivan didn’t know he had. And it was addictive enough to do again the next night and the next.

A petit jete and coupe de pied and Ivan is bowing low to Mathieu half way across the room. Silence lasts a moment before steady clapping fills the room. One slap after the other and over it Mathieu calls out, “Who knew a harlot could be so skilled. My father chose his investments well.”

Ivan rises to see Mathieu gesturing him closer, and in uneven steps he goes. “Beautiful,” Mathieu coos. He spreads his legs wider for Ivan to kneel between, lifting the tutu so it wouldn’t touch the floor.

Ivan doesn’t want to look at what’s between Mathieu’s legs, nor does he want to see such kind eyes while the mouth says terrible things. He closes his eyes as Mathieu reaches for his cheek and breathes deep when he feels a nose next to his own, lips ghosting over his.

“You do look a whore, all made up like this,” he says. Every word presses his lips to Ivan’s, resembling a kiss but not so much when his thumb smears the red gloss from his mouth in an arch up his cheek.

“Do you dress up for all the ‘private audiences’ like this, hmm?” Another hand goes to cup his jaw and Mathieu presses a kiss to his sweaty hair line.

There are sounds of fabric and knocks against the bench. When Ivan opens his eyes, Mathieu is there, eager for him. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what to do.”

He moves forward, and those fingers go into his hair, palms over his ears as though to protect him from what Mathieu will surely say. A hairsbreadth away Ivan pokes out his tongue, flattens it against the pulsing vein, and Mathieu sinks with a sigh, hovering over Ivan.

Ivan follows up the length, little flits of his tongue all over the tip to make Mathieu hum. “Oh, what you must have learned in your back alleys days,” he says. Ivan plants his hands firmly on Mathieu’s knees, determined not to use them either with his tongue or on his own growing arousal.

Red smeared over Mathieu’s length, probably making a mess when tucked neatly back into those fancy trousers. The laundress will be scandalized, Ivan imagines, at such a sweet, shy boy finding himself a courtesan for the night. She’ll gossip with the maid and the cook, and none of them will see him in the same way again, minds running wild at what things their master gets up to in the city at night. Only Ivan will know for sure. Only Ivan and Mathieu.

“Christ,” Mathieu groans when Ivan slides him in, lips tightening in an attempt to leave a scarlet band there at the bottom. He gives compliments mixed with profanities, and Ivan echoes them on what’s in his mouth, preening at the attention.

“Such a whore,” Mathieu breathes. Ivan goes faster, knows what Mathieu will say when he’s so near the brink.

“Have you done this with my father?” Ivan wants to say no, but his head bobs up and down on the cock. “No wonder he sponsors you. You wouldn’t even have to go to his bed, a coy thing like you. You know what you’re doing, promising eternity and damnation in those glances of yours. Seducing greater men than I every time you dance.” Fingers gently massage his skull. “A professional.”

It’s so hard, so hard, Ivan wants to touch himself under his skirts, dares not, not until Mathieu gives him permission. And when his hips start thrusting like that, one hand leaving Ivan to balance himself, Ivan recognizes it’s too late to pull back, must finish this and pray for mercy in the second round.

“Ah, you’re too damn good.” Mathieu can barely be heard, over the sounds of their misdeeds and his own pants. “I should take you back with me. I should take you everywhere. I can’t leave you here with anyone, I need to keep an eye on you boy –” Ivan surges forward when Mathieu cries, catching most of it on the back of his tongue. He doesn’t dare swallow and keeps up his ministrations, so that when Mathieu forces his jaw open, the stickiness is messed about in his mouth, slender tendrils connecting roof and tongue.

Mathieu nods and pets Ivan’s hair as Ivan swallows. He enjoys the feeling, occasionally dipping down to lick Mathieu’s softening member until Mathieu gently lays him against his thigh like a pillow.

“Should’ve known you were desperate for it.” Mathieu’s voice is soft, his words are venom and the contrast goes right to Ivan’s cock. A foot, still in the shoe, slips under the skirt and presses against it. “Tramp. Do you need more?” Ivan just sighs.

Mathieu pats his cheek. “Stockings off. And go to the barre.”


End file.
